


Silver Threads (Among The Gold)

by commoncomitatus



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, F/F, Stolen Moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 15:29:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19065433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commoncomitatus/pseuds/commoncomitatus
Summary: A quiet moment above Skyhold.





	Silver Threads (Among The Gold)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eissa/gifts).



> Thank you for such lovely prompts, dear recipient! Character studies and romantic sunsets, how could I resist?

*

In the glow of sunset, even Skyhold’s ramparts become a thing of unparalleled beauty.

 _Beauty_ : it is not a subject Cassandra allows herself to think of often. The word evokes visions of Orlesian courts, of preening nobles and smug, self-righteous diplomats, the finest fabrics to shroud their lifeless bodies and empty minds. It has never been something to aspire to, certainly not something to admire. Indeed, in Cassandra’s experience, beauty is the sole comfort given to those who lack anything else.

It is a view she has come to reconsider in recent weeks.

Inquisitor Adaar is beautiful. Her dusky grey skin gleams under the setting sun, burnished like bronze, like gold, like the shimmering scales of her new dragonbone armour.

She’s not wearing the armour this evening. Only a tunic and a pair of riding trousers, modestly cut and comfortable, and she is all the more beautiful for it. There are not many in the Inquisition with her size and build; as Cassandra understands it, her entire wardrobe was personally commissioned by Josephine. It suits her well, dark shades of grey and black to highlight her features, a flash of silver in the thread to bring out her eyes.

Cassandra never thought to notice such things before. The colour of a tunic, the shimmering strands of its thread, the way they reflect and refract the light, the way the fabric creases to hug the curve of a shoulder, a bicep, a breast…

She never thought to notice a lot of things before Inquisitor Adaar.

No. Before _Herah_.

Strange, still, to think of her as that. To call her by her name, intimate and personal, not ‘heretic’ or ‘Herald’ or ‘Inquisitor’. Strange, to look into those eyes, ash-grey flecked with silver, and not see a prisoner of the Chantry or the voice of Andraste or the figurehead of the Inquisition, to see not a symbol but a soul. A friend, a companion, a…

A lover.

She’s looking at Cassandra as well, eyes half-lidded, features heavy with adoration, with warmth and want. It is a strange experience, even now, to see such things turned on her, to know that they are hers.

To know that _she_ is hers.

Strange, indeed.

Herah smiles. A little sharp, a little toothy, very Qunari; even in this most private of moments she can’t quite turn off the playful mercenary, the identity that defined her for so long. She can no more shrug off that mantle, Cassandra supposes, than she herself can become less a Seeker simply because she’s not wearing her armour.

“You look beautiful in this light,” Herah says, with such soft sincerity that Cassandra is seduced all over again.

“I assure you, Herald, that is merely the sun in your eye.”

A low, rumbling chuckle, rich and powerful like the rest of her. Whether or not it’s actually blinding her remains a point of contention, but the sun is certainly in her eyes; it catches the silver, the ash, refracts and remakes them into something new, something ethereal. Shards of glass cracked with frost, or sparks from a blacksmith’s hammer, the fire hot and white. If anyone looks beautiful in this light, Cassandra thinks, it is Herah Adaar.

“You think too little of yourself,” Herah is saying, and the warmth bleeds through all of her until it touches her smile, her shoulders, her curves, until it touches Cassandra as well, deeply and intimately. “You always have.”

“Quite the contrary, I assure you,” Cassandra replies. “I am merely aware of my weaknesses.”

Acutely aware, in fact. No doubt Herah will chuckle again in a moment, and point out that her greatest weakness is her inability to accept a compliment. And, of course, she will not be wrong. Cassandra is unaccustomed to sincerity in such things, and she has little practice in accepting them with grace.

“Well,” Adaar says, with a playful huff, “ _I_ think you’re beautiful.”

“And I think you’re a romantic,” Cassandra counters, in lieu of anything else to say. She hopes the words won’t draw too much attention to the blush climbing her neck. “Honestly, Herald—”

“Her _ah_.”

Cassandra bows her head, apologetic. It is a mistake she makes often, perhaps some part of her unable to let go of their former, simpler relationship. When the Herald of Andraste held only a Seeker’s faith in her hands, so much lighter than her heart, when Cassandra naively believed herself a woman of simple tastes, a lover of fine books and finely-crafted armour, whose romantic pursuits were vicarious and fictional.

Many things changed when Herah became the Inquisitor, for everyone. There are those who still call her ‘Herald’, who cling as Cassandra does to the comfort that comes with holding fast to faith. Most, however, see her as a leader and a hero, powerful and imposing in her burnished armour, broad shoulders and a sword as tall as any human male. She ceased, in that moment, to be a figure, and became a woman.

In their eyes, yes. And in Cassandra’s as well.

She had never looked at a woman in that way before. Indeed, she rarely looked that way at men, most days, at least those beyond the elegant etchings on her novels. Herah’s flirting, though not discouraged, had always been entirely harmless; Cassandra could think of it no other way. Could not imagine, could not fathom that the Lady Herald could possibly be serious in her pursuits. That one so worldly, so powerful, would think of _her_ …

Well. Cassandra is not without her own sort of worldliness, true. But the idea that the Herald would find her charming, that she would find her attractive?

Absurd, of course. It was simply the way she was, the laughing Valo-Kas mercenary, quick with her wit and quicker with that sharp-toothed Qunari smile; Tal-Vashoth or not, some things are indelible, and Herah’s heritage sings in her smile. She could charm or slaughter anyone within ten paces, without even glancing over her shoulder to take in the damage. Even if she wasn’t the Herald, the Inquisitor, arguably the most important person in Thedas, she could surely win any heart she set her mind to.

That she would set her mind to win _Cassandra’s_ …

That Cassandra would set her heart, in turn, to actually being won…

Well. That, at least, certainly proves her point.

“I wonder sometimes,” Cassandra muses aloud, “why you would ever choose me.”

“If you have to wonder,” Herah counters, “I’m not doing my job right.”

Cassandra chuckles, swats her enormous bicep. “You know what I mean.”

“Sincerely,” Herah says, looking very earnest now, “I don’t.”

Cassandra sighs. It is more of an effort than she would care to admit, tearing her gaze from Herah’s stunning silver-etched eyes, from her open, honest face, the smile flickering and softening into something more tender, the compassion a strange but touching look for her strong, iron-wrought features.

That she cares is, at this point, beyond question. That Cassandra will question it even so — for this, perhaps the thousandth time — is, unfortunately, just as inevitable.

She looks around herself, around them. The ramparts, transformed by the fading sunlight, even the old worn stone wearing a badge of beauty at this most magical time of day. Beneath them, the rest of Skyhold, quiet and at peace; too rare, she thinks, in recent days. And beyond their fortress, their new haven, the Frostback Mountains, bathed in orange and yellow, in the first glimmers of red as the sun kisses their peaks on its way down.

Beauty as far as the eye can see. Beauty, far beyond what Cassandra can make out. She wonders, not for the first time, if Herah’s eyesight is better than hers, or worse, or the same. She knows so little about the Qunari, never had much reason to think of them beyond their role in the Kirkwall uprising; before the Conclave, before Herah Adaar became Andraste’s Herald, her understanding extended only as far as Varric’s exaggerated stories. Never in her wildest imaginings would she have expected to need to know…

Well. Anything at all.

She did some reading, of course, at Haven. But the information was sparse and scanty, and she doubts the veracity of what she read almost more than what she heard from Varric.

Now, face-to-face with a Qunari Herald, a Qunari Inquisitor, a Qunari lover, she finds that she knows nothing. Only that the mere sight of her draws all the breath from her body.

It is not enough.

“You bring us here often,” she says, testing the stray thought on her tongue. “Does the view so entice you?”

“ _You_ entice me,” Herah says. “Up here, kissed by the sun, you are the most beautiful sight in all Thedas.”

Cassandra blushes again, but this time she doesn’t chuckle. “You’ve been reading my books,” she remarks.

“Absolutely not!” Miraculously, Herah is blushing now too; the heat turns her skin a darker grey, ash scorched to coal, the sunlight catching like embers in metallic glints. “I, ah, may have asked Varric to scribble a few lines for me. No reading involved!”

Cassandra drops her head into her hands. For a moment, the whole view is obscured, blessed simplicity filling her vision for just long enough to express her disapproval — _“ugh!”_ — and then she lifts her head again and it vanishes.

“Poetry aside,” Herah says, serious once more. “I bring us here because you’re beautiful here. Above the world, away from the armoury and the Inquisition and Maker-knows what else…”

Cassandra is certain she’ll never grow accustomed to hearing the Maker’s name on a Qunari tongue. “It is peaceful up here,” she says. “I concede that. And the sunset brings out your eyes.”

“It brings out your everything,” Herah says, and Cassandra knows these to be her own words, not Varric’s, because they are silly and awkward and trip over her tongue. “I mean, you seem relaxed here. Calm. At peace, high above everything. Like no-one can touch you when we’re up here.”

“You touch me,” Cassandra says; it is automatic, and it makes her blush deepen.

Herah laughs, but doesn’t let the entendre distract her too much. “It’s the only place in Skyhold where there’s nothing else,” she goes on. “Just the two of us. Where you can put down your sword and your quill and just… be.”

“Believe me,” Cassandra says wryly, “if I could put down that blasted quill more often, I would. I have no talent nor patience for letters.”

“I know.” And there it is again: that toothy, Valo-Kas smile. “Josephine mentions it often. I don’t know what she expects _me_ to do about your penmanship, but…”

“Private lessons, perhaps?” Cassandra offers. “Surely our ambassador must have noticed we’ve been spending more time together of late.”

“I’m sure the whole of Skyhold has noticed.” She leans back a little, letting the red-tinted light set fire to the silver on her skin, in her eyes, threaded into her clothes. “Let them.”

Cassandra isn’t sure she shares the Inquisitor’s optimism on that front. No doubt Herah knows this; no doubt it’s another reason why she brings them here, far above prying eyes and eavesdroppers, far above anything Cassandra might find discomfiting. She understands, perhaps more than Cassandra gives her credit for, that this situation is entirely new to her, that there is much she must come to grips with.

Being adored, for one. Being considered beautiful…

She is not ready to hear the whispers from the barracks about _that_.

“As long as ‘notice’ is all they do,” she murmurs, mostly to herself.

Herah’s expression shifts. Almost imperceptible, but the setting sun doesn’t let anything stay hidden up here; it illuminates the lines, the deepening creases, the way she’s smothering a frown.

“Are you so bothered by a little gossip?” she asks, with sincerity.

“I… of course not.” Absurd, truly. “I am a Seeker, formerly Right Hand to the Divine. If idle chatter were enough to shame me, I would have shrivelled up and died many years ago.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

Cassandra swats her again, basking a little in the solidity, the raw physical strength of her body. Pure muscle, raw power, all the beauty of the male form but curved and clean as a woman’s, hard and soft and both at the same time. Herah is a work of art, a masterpiece that even the greatest sculptors in Orzammar could never capture. There is no doubt in her mind, or in anyone’s, that she is beautiful; even if she weren’t so smitten, so much in love, Cassandra could not deny that.

Her own form: _that_ is the problem. Straight lines, hard angles, no curves or softness in any part of her. Even her smiles, rare and fleeting as they are, are jagged and sharp, slashes across her face, no less painful than her scar.

They are both warriors, both visions of strength, but Herah wears hers with the confidence of one who knows that she is beautiful as well as powerful. Cassandra, having only been told such a thing once in her life, has no such certainty. She carries herself awkwardly, shyly, stumbling and stomping and squaring her shoulders; she carries herself like one of Cullen’s recruits, weighted down by their armour, clumsy with their sword.

An ironic comparison, she thinks, for it is only when she is in her armour that she is _not_ clumsy.

“It is just…” She closes her eyes, lets the afterimage of the sunset cling to her eyelids, lets her imagination replace them with Herah’s skin, ash turned to bronze in these magical hours. “I simply cannot fathom what you see in me.”

Herah is smiling when she opens her eyes. Not toothy or keen, no mercenary’s charm or warrior’s power, just warm sincerity and quiet adoration. Just her, Herah, looking at her, Cassandra, and what a marvel that is.

“I see _you_ ,” she says, and it is no answer at all.

“Indeed,” Cassandra replies, self-deprecating to hide the sting. “That is my point.”

“Mm. But you’re missing mine.” She leans in, a tender brush of long Qunari fingers against the curve of her jaw, her cheek. The enormity of her hand makes Cassandra feel more delicate than she ever thought possible, while the controlled tenderness makes her feel gangly and awkward. “As a warrior, Cassandra, you’re incredible. You turn the battlefield into a painter’s canvas. But as a _woman_ …”

Her breath catches, as though struck by some depthless, indefinable emotion. Cassandra tries with only moderate success to hide her grimace. “Therein lay the problem?”

“No.” She blushes deeper, darker. “I was going to say, as a woman you’re _radiant_.”

Ah.

Cassandra does not join her in blushing this time; she looks down at herself, uncomfortable without her armour, and wonders how someone as perceptive and brilliant as Herah Adaar can so misread her. She is a warrior, yes — it is the only word that has ever defined her — but _woman_ is not a term she’s ever been comfortable applying to herself.

She knows it to be true, of course. Her femininity — no, her _femaleness_ — defines her just as completely as her talent with a sword, her Seeker’s powers, any other part of her. But to see herself as a woman, as female and feminine… it conjures in her mind visions of Josephine, frilled and perfumed, or of Vivienne, wrapped in her silks and velvets, sparkling like the rarest of gemstones. Cassandra can do neither of these things, float like Josephine or glide like Vivienne; she has never been able to reconcile her own identity with theirs.

But Herah looks at her like it is simple, like her identity as a woman and her role as a warrior are one and the same. Perhaps they are, under the Qun or whatever similar doctrine guides the life of a Tal Vashoth like Hera. She knows this much, at least: that Qunari are defined by their roles in society, that their gender is secondary to their talents. It does not strike her as the kind of existence where beauty would hold any real meaning, and yet…

And yet, the way Herah looks at her now…

 _Radiant_ , she says.

“I cannot imagine how you see such a thing,” Cassandra says.

And Herah replies, “I can’t imagine how you don’t.”

She kisses her, then, slow and sweet, to drive her point home. It is as though she believes she can pour her heart and her faith into Cassandra through her mouth, as though she can fill her up with that impossible, unfathomable version of herself that is _radiant_. Kissing her with open eyes, Cassandra sees her own face reflected, the scar on her cheek sparkling with the silver flecks of Herah’s eyes, her skin gleaming like dragonbone, bathed in ash-grey and sunset-gold. Like this, reflected and reflected, she can almost believe it.

But then the moment is over, and they pull apart, and Cassandra can only see herself through her own eyes again.

“I think,” she says, when she is able to speak, “we see the world very differently.”

“Good,” Herah says, smiling. “It’d be tragically boring if we saw it the same way.”

True, maybe. Cassandra thinks of Josephine, of the easy way she can agree with a thousand different opinions all at the same time. She envies that, sometimes, the ability to be whatever someone else wants to see, to transform herself completely to best suit the situation or her companion.

Cassandra would transform herself completely for Herah Adaar, if she could.

She can’t, though, and something tells her — unfathomably, impossibly — that Herah wouldn’t want her to.

“One day,” she says softly, “I would like to see myself as you do.”

“Oh, what a terrible idea that would be!” Herah’s laughter is like music, lilting and lifting; Cassandra’s heart catches its rhythm, and sings. “Just think of all the bad poetry! Would you really subject the Inquisition to such a thing?”

“Maker forbid!” Still, she can’t quite bring herself to laugh as well. “I just cannot fathom seeing myself as… beautiful.”

Herah looks out for a moment, over the ramparts to the fortress below, the people milling about, oblivious to their Inquisitor’s keen eyes on them. Further, then, to the snow-capped peaks of the Frostbacks, ice crystals glittering like gold-flecked wine under the setting sun. So much beauty in every direction, spreading out as far as the eye can see; for a moment she seems almost lost, drowning as she struggles to take it all in.

“I would’ve said the same thing, once,” she says softly, “about all of this.”

Cassandra faces her, frowning her confusion. “Oh?”

“The mountains, for one. All that snow! And don’t get me started on the wind…” She shudders, full-bodied and comical. “I hate the cold. Always have. If someone had told me a couple of years ago that I’d be living up here by choice, I would’ve asked if they were drunk.” Her gaze lowers again, bringing her back to their home, to Skyhold. “And all those people? Ugh. You don’t become a mercenary if you want to make friends. To be worshipped, idolised… called a _Herald_ …” Her lips twitch. “I would’ve probably knocked your teeth out for that one.”

This time, Cassandra does find a laugh. It is a small, stuttering thing, but it makes Herah’s whole body grow warm at her side.

“Not a natural fit, then?” she asks. It’s more than just the obvious simple question. “You make it all seem so effortless.”

“Plenty of practice,” Herah says with an easy, self-deprecating grin. “I’m a mercenary. It’s all about looking the right way. Intimidate this one, charm that one, knock some other one’s teeth out. You get used to finding the right front.”

That is oddly comforting. Easy to assume the Inquisitor is always as much at ease as she appears, that she truly does wear the role as effortlessly as her armour, that she wields power and responsibility as comfortably as her trusty blade. Cassandra has grown accustomed to reading people only at their surface level; she lacks Vivienne or Josephine’s enjoyment of double-speak, of wearing masks. Certainly, she lacks Leliana’s talents for reading a dozen emotions in a single flicker of expression. She is simple, and she sees the world simply.

She should not, she knows, draw comfort from knowing that the Herald of Andraste is not as comfortable as she pretends to be. She should feel sorry for her, should feel…

She doesn’t know. But she does not.

It brings Herah a little closer to the world Cassandra understands, a little closer to human: flawed and fallible, not quite so untouchable as she’d want the world to believe.

It makes it easier for Cassandra to touch her.

Herah’s skin is cold under her warm palm, the rippling muscle of her bicep smooth under her callouses; even in something as simple as this, it seems, they are opposites.

“I hope,” Cassandra says, “you don’t feel you must put on a front for me.”

The muscle in Herah’s arm jumps under her hand. A twitch, possibly of emotion, possibly simply the cold; Cassandra lacks the perception to tell. No doubt if Leliana were in her place, or Vivienne or Josephine or—

“Never,” Herah says, and leans in to kiss her again.

And Cassandra thinks, losing herself to the contact, the moment, that it could never be them. Not Leliana with her tendency to brood and think too deeply. Not Vivienne with her preoccupation with control, with making even the most beautiful things more perfect, more precise, more her own. Not Josephine, softening and refracting the keenest angles, the hardest light, until they lose the very thing that made them unique. Only her, Cassandra, swathed in simplicity, unable to discern complexity or detail, seeing only that Herah is beautiful.

She doesn’t know what Herah sees in her, doesn’t know what it means when her muscles twitch or her eyes soften in the orange glow, when her toothy grin becomes soft and sweet.

She knows so little about so much. Knowledge is not her strength, only faith. She has clung to it for so long, let it define her, become part of her. She does not _know_ , does not seek to _understand_ ; she searches only for something she can believe in. 

And Herah…

Herah, she believes in. As the Herald, as the Inquisitor, as a warrior and a woman. As all the unimaginable things the world sees when they look at her. As a source of hope and strength and power, a world of colour, radiant and breathtaking and impossibly beautiful.

And as the one person in all the world who looks at Cassandra and sees the same.

*


End file.
